Instead he bowed, a short inclination of his upper body, and from there, with one graceful motion, he shifted his left foot back and lifted the pole. Couched across his body, the glaive now pointed straight at Haakon, sunlight reflecting from its bright blade.
The demon’s brief bow was so incongruous, so against the threat of his frightening raiment, that Haakon took a half step back. Of a certes, a man, disguised as a demon. Several realizations followed in a clumsy rush: first, his opponent came from a cultured place where people had manners; second, they hewed to their manners even before fighting, suggesting that ritual combat was an established practice.
Third, this was not a good sign.
He’s waiting, Haakon realized, wondering if his opponent thought him such a fool that he would initiate an attack against that pole sword. I am not, he thought. With a fluid motion, he responded with a proper bow, planting a leg well in front of him so that the weight of his coat of mail would not simply jerk him face-first into the ground.
When he heaved himself back up again, he noted the opponent looking at him with what he guessed was curiosity. And why not? While he wasn’t as gaudily dressed, Haakon’s armor was more complex than that of your average infantryman. He had left off several of the extra pieces that were meant to keep a knight alive in the chaotic melee of the battlefield.
The demon knows, Haakon realized. He’s seen armor like this before. His eye went naturally to the blade attached to the end of the pole; it had an edge on only one side, tapering from a thickened spine that doubtless gave it strength and stiffness. The blade’s curve suggested it would be most effective when accompanied by a drawing or pushing movement, just as a butcher uses when slicing meat. Such attacks worked best against unarmored targets, but the pole’s extra reach and heft made the blade dangerous to armored men as well.
Most of the techniques that Haakon knew were useless against such a weapon. Haakon’s greatsword was symmetrical and double-edged. Brother Rutger had recommended the tried-and-true method: a short sword in the right hand and a shield on the left arm. If it was good enough for the Romans and good enough for your Viking forefathers—
The demon let out a bloodcurdling shriek. Even though his mask muffled his voice, the cry was so sudden, so shocking, that Haakon felt like he had been struck by lightning. His muscles jumped, and instinctively he fell back a step as the demon lunged forward. The long blade of the glaive snapped past him, and with a flick of his wrists, the demon whirled the pole in a tight circle. The blade seemed to jump sideways, coming right for his face even though his passing step back had turned his body sideways.
Haakon threw up his sword, and he heard rather than felt the impact, a grating clang of steel against steel. The demon had struck him with the flat of the blade—a slap more than a slice—and before Haakon could react, the blade was gone.
A test, Haakon realized as the demon stepped carefully across the sand, whirling his pole in short, deadly circles. Each pass of the blade was in a different place—first high, then low, then high, then in the middle. Haakon wasn’t about to stand his ground against one of them. The slapping attack hadn’t been that focused. Had it been, it would have smashed through his frantic parry. These strikes, while not as fast as the demon’s initial attack, all carried the demon’s full strength. His sword wasn’t strong enough to bear the brunt of a hard swing.
Zugaikotsu no Yama waited. Not for the Western knight to ready himself after his perfunctory—and somewhat stiff—bow. Not because he was concerned about the man’s armor. Head, shoulders, chest, legs, feet—the Western knight was covered from the crown of his head to the soles of his boots in metal. Zug waited for the sound, the horrible, tearing noise that would spring from somewhere deep within his bag of flesh. That exhalation of grief and rage that never seemed to die.
The kiai.
The shout flew violently out of his mouth, rattling his mask. It signified an awakening within him, a sudden birthing of desire and anger. The shout brought life to his limbs, and in the wake of the cry came the muscle memory, the knowledge of what to do, how to fight, how to kill.
He thrust the skull-maker, and when the knight turned away from his attack, he almost laughed at his opponent’s na?veté. His hands twitched, flicking the flat of his long blade toward the knight’s armored face.
It would be easy to kill him now, but it was too soon. He circled the frightened knight, letting the skull-maker play for a little while with a complex series of strikes and feints.
His opponent was cautious, staying out of his blade’s reach, and Zug found himself breathing a little quicker, a little harder.
Perhaps he was not as clumsy as he first appeared…